I don’t know why I’m here. But I laugh so hard I cry and say so much my mouth is dry. I feel so alone, completely alien, and like no one knows what I’m talking about. But doesn’t everyone feel that way? Doesn’t everyone feel a strict divide between them and the rest of the human race? And why doesn’t Ikea sell ashtrays?
Now, I’ve been sitting here with every intention of writing about a good memory of my grandfather, Paul. But let me preface by saying the man isn’t dead, I just really enjoy this memory. So all you Paul fans out there, don’t worry, he’s still a spring chicken.
It was a crisp November afternoon in Washington DC, circa 2008. Obama had just won the election, and my grandma was taking a business trip down there. My mom, dad, grandfather, and I tagged along and did some super fun touristy shit, like going to the botanical gardens and the Smithsonian. It was truly an amazing trip. I have many fond memories from that time, but my favorite memory occurred when we were on our way out of DC. We stopped at this place for lunch, a rather fancy place that Obama himself frequented. We had petit fours for dessert, and then we all decided that it would be smart to use the bathroom before embarking upon our journey back home. We regrouped outside the bathrooms and left. Now, my grandfather was acting a little weird at this point; he was making a really odd face, but sometimes people do that, you know? So I thought little of it. We get into the car and start to drive. We’re stopped at a light when suddenly, the man takes a huge swig of what I assume was probably day-old Diet Coke, swishes, opens the car door while we’re waiting at the light, and just violently sprays the beverage from his mouth. The rest of us are looking around confused, when after a long pause, he finally explains to us that those sticks in the bottle of nice-smelling liquid in the bathrooms? Yeah, they were not breath fresheners at all, they were air fresheners. My grandfather licked a scented reed diffuser thing. And the poor man to this day still gets clowned on because of it. Sorry, Grandaddy! I love you endlessly. Thank you for always spreading joy, whether it’s your intention or not.
Okay, now here’s a list of my favorite bugs.
- The Snowberry Clearwing Moth (Hemaris diffinis)
- The Rosy Maple Moth (Dryocampa rubicunda)
- The Praying Mantis (Mantodea)
- Amazonian Giant Centipede (Scolopendra gigantea)
- The Arizona Bark Scorpion (Centruroides sculpturatus)*
- BEES! (Anthophila)
- The Death Heads Hawkmoth (Acherontia atropos)
- The Luna Moth (Actias luna)
- The Harvester Ant (Pogonomyrmex maricopa)
- The Dung Beetle (Scarabaeus viettei)
*I know, scorpions are arachnids. But I’m just such a big fan I had to include them.
And a dialogue between Leonardo and Michelangelo I wrote:
LEONARDO: Ah, hello there, dear Michelangelo. We find ourselves once again beneath the same ceiling, each trying to capture the beauty of war in the Palazzo Vecchio. How do you fare?
MICHELANGELO: I fare, but i don’t intend to use sfumato. The men in my fresco will bleed by means of fine line, not vanish into mist.
L: But war, Michelangelo, is also strategy. It is not only bodies—it is minds. That is what I paint.
M: You paint ideas, dreams, and smoke. The Last Supper is already fading from the wall!
L: Art is not just the moment, Michelangelo. It is the soul. My Last Supper lives in the silence between words. Your David speaks bluntly and rudely.
M: And yet it is my David who stands in the Piazza!
L: Oh, my dear Michelangelo. You see the world as a battle to be won; I see it as a mystery to be understood.
M: Perhaps that is why Florence needs us both. Just don’t take too long, the wall won’t wait forever.
L: And marble does not forgive impatience. I dream, and you merely act.
M: It’s a miracle you ever finish anything. I painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel with my neck twisted toward the heavens! That is devotion.
L: I tend to other things besides my art, you know. Like my studies of anatomy, my inventions, and astronomy. I have my own devotions.
M: And where has that gotten you? A fair amount of unfinished projects, I’d assume. Look at me, sculptor of flesh, prolific and engaged.
L: And I am the painter of thoughts. We shall agree to disagree.
M: Very well then.
Okay well that’s about it. Thanks for being here!
Phrenectomy 